


Out of Control

by Aaymeirah



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Banter, Cold War, Emotionally Repressed, Fist Fights, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missions Gone Wrong, Pre-Canon, Spies, Undercover Missions, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 19:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21258656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaymeirah/pseuds/Aaymeirah
Summary: Agent Curt Mega's mission was simple: Cozy up to some Russian weapons dealers by posing as a brash American looking to make some money on the sly by providing secure transportation for the 'items'.He didn't realize Owen Carvour would be involved. (Not that he's complaining.)





	1. The Exchange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vanilla_Sodapop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanilla_Sodapop/gifts).

> Written as a gift for Imi as part of the SAF Discord's Secret Satan 2019. Hope you enjoy the story! (There are cute moments in this fic, I promise.)

Agent Curt Mega, one of the American Secret Service’s top agents, contrary his most recent report, did not have things under control.

It was supposed to be a simple mission; Cozy up to some Russian weapons dealers by posing as a brash American looking to make some money on the sly by providing secure transportation for the items.

Of course, only one part, that of him being a brash American, was true.

If one were to ask Curt a week ago, he would say only half of a part of the statement was true. (That of him being American.) If one were to ask Curt now as he crouched in the shadows of an alleyway with his Russian friends, waiting for the transportation truck well past the arranged exchange time, he would be willing to revise that statement.

“Is your contact coming?” The leader known only as Сильная рука which Curt thought meant Strongarm, asked in heavily accented English.

“He’ll be here,” Curt reassured. The problem with weapons dealers, he mused, was the fact that they were always armed, always looking for a way to vent their frustration with the aid of their shiny toys. A.S.S’s reassurances that the meeting would take place had better not fall through.

Snow fell gently. Thick white flakes lazily exposed in the warm yellow light of the cast-iron street lamps. At the top of the street, the screech of tires sounded. Strongarm & co. straightened themselves, not so subtly checking that the safeties on their guns were unlocked and that their knives were easily accessed. The truck’s headlamps added another patch of illumination to the cold silent night as it parked in front of the alleyway. Curt saw the door open, and as the driver stepped out, he casually reached up to scratch his nose and rub a hand through his hair for the agreed-upon sign. These codes were an unfortunate reality when so many of his fellow spies were unknown to him, deep undercover. The driver interlocked his hands and stretched them high above his head with a familiar, languid grace. That was the appropriate response. Curt walked forward to see who it was.

“Hello darlings, sorry to keep you waiting, but this weather just doesn’t respect my carefully planned schedule,” the driver said casually. Could it be? Curt worked hard to repress a smile as he recognized that voice so casually familiar with everyone, the ease of movement and confidence that could only belong to his- partner. Owen.

“Antony. Is this the man you say can transport our items to wherever they need to go. Who will- make sure the wrong people don’t lay their hands on them?” Strongarm asked Curt.

Technically, the wrong people had already laid their hands all over them.

“He is.”

“I assure you, I am excellent in my chosen profession. Haven’t had any failed deliveries,” Owen asserted casually.

“How can I be sure?”

“I’m alive aren’t I?” Strongarm laughed, and after a moment his men joined in too. Curt contented himself with a slight smile, that was his Owen. Always so clever.

“Bring the boxes, we begin loading immediately,” Strongarm commanded, regaining his sobriety. Their work commenced as quietly as possible. Curt knew that even if the few poor tenants who inhabited this part of the city heard odd noises, no one would dare to come to investigate. Owen motioned for Strongarm and Curt to approach him. They both did, Curt following a step behind the weapons dealer, even though everything in him was urging him to rush forward and embrace Owen.

“Antony, my old friend. You promised me money when I agreed to transport the merchandise.”

“Сильная рука has it.” Strongarm glared at Curt, he shrugged innocently.

“I told you my contact had a price.”

“Indeed love, it takes money to cross borders and bribe guards. Not to mention personal risk.” Strongarm nodded after a moment and pulled a manila envelope out of his inner jacket pocket.

“You’re money is here, along with directions to where I want you to drop off the items.”

“Consider it done,” Owen told him, offering a gloved hand. Strongarm took it and shook it heartily, Curt winced in sympathy. (Having felt that vise-like grip three times already.)

“I must go check on the loading,” he said before he walked away. They weren’t alone, but it was more than Curt had had in the six months and three cryptic phone calls since he had last seen Owen.

“Antony, huh?”

“I had to think fast. What are you going by anyways?”

“Join me for a drink in four days at the красная курица in the village six miles west of this place and I just might tell you,” Owen responded, smiling crookedly.

“And you’ll also explain why the British Secret Service is involved in this small-time weapons deal?” Curt asked dryly.

“If I’m cleared to,” Owen told him airily. Curt stared at him till a faint blush overcame Owen’s cheeks, already red from the skin exposed to the cold. Owen coughed uncomfortably and glanced at Strongarm and the last few crates being loaded into the truck.

“I’m supposed to tell you it’s time to clear out. Get your money and part ways cleanly as soon as Strongarm gets the message that his merchandise has been delivered safely.”

“Thanks,” said Curt. Wishing he could say all the things he wanted to say. Wishing he didn’t have to wait four days to truly talk with Owen. To replace that memory he sometimes talked to with the real, living, lovely thing.

“We’re all loaded,” Strongarm called. Curt stepped away from Owen as Owen got into the truck.

“Four days love,” he murmured. As the truck door closed and backed out of the alleyway, Curt turned to a grinning Strongarm.

“I’ll stay until you get the message of safe delivery, but after that, I need to move on.”

“Fair enough. You’ll get your money as soon as I get the message.” Curt nodded and began to walk away. Strongarm’s hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“And Antony, if I find out that you cheated me, that you skipped town or, god forbid, turn out to be a thrice turned traitor...well, you’ve seen the bodies hanging on the north wall, yes?”

“Yeah.” 

"You have the potential to be a lovely ornament on it. I can pull some strings.” Strongarm smiled, pleased at his double entendre in English.

“Got it,” said Curt, refusing to betray his nervousness. Strongarm smiled and slapped his shoulder before motioning to his men and walking off. Curt stood in the middle of the now-abandoned alleyway, daring to grin like the fool he was. The deal had gone off without a hitch. He had seen Owen, hell he was going to meet Owen in a few days.

His part in the mission was done, now it was time to tie up the loose ends.

“See you soon- love,” he murmured to the snowing Russian night.


	2. The Meeting

Agent Owen Carvour, a dashing and competent spy if he did say so himself, had things perfectly under control.

He did.

If things weren’t under control, why else would he be sitting here, nursing a drink and waiting, no orders or places to be for the next few places?  
The door to the pub opened and Owen looked up eagerly. Not Curt, just a heavyset woman so comfortable at the place that she must be a regular. The next person to enter was a short, skinny man who made his way to the bar immediately.

Still no Curt.

Owen checked his watch. What did he expect? He hadn’t been specific, just told Curt to meet him here in four days. He had waited longer before, a spy had to be patient and always ready to respond when the time was right. But this time was different. This time, he had something to look forward to; the company of someone before whom he didn’t have to keep up his constant pretenses and personas, someone he loved.

An hour passed during which the sky darkened early by his standards, but reasonable for the season. A few patrons glanced at him curiously, but a practiced glare soon turned them back to their own business. The door opened once more, and this time, the right man walked in.

Curt hesitated in the doorway a moment, scanning the room, then walked towards his table and sat down across from him. No amount of glares would keep the patrons from stealing glances at the person who had dared to disrupt the solitude of the man who had spent the better part of a day nursing drinks and staring despondently out of the windows.

“Hello Owen,” said Curt.

“Hello Curt,” said Owen. The two men stared at each other, hesitant after their long separation. Curt leaned forward.

“Is it safe to talk here?” he murmured. Owen looked at the curious patrons.

“More or less. Have a drink, then we can go to my room at the hotel just down the street and we’ll exchange- sensitive information,” Owen said.

“Is that all we’ll do?” Curt asked casually.

“Is that all you want to do?”

“Well, the real question would be who do I….” Curt began to respond, then seemed to remember they were in public. They stared at each other and Owen couldn’t help but smile fondly at his erstwhile partner. Curt had a way of bringing trouble in his wake. Sometimes Owen thought Curt would be the death of him, but perhaps his time undercover in Russia had made him more cautious.

“So, how have things been? Not with the mission, I know all about that. But personally,” Owen asked.

“You asking about emotions? Absence does make the heart grow fonder.”

“You’re evading the question.”

“And you’re holding information over my head.”

“I know undercover work isn’t your forte.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t do it. I spent a whole week preparing Antony’s backstory.”

“And left the name till last minute?”

“Barb picked it out when she put in the order for the right documentation.”

“How is she?”

“Just as obsessed with me as ever,” Curt frowned, obviously puzzled at her continued interest in him.

“You’re an easy man to become obsessed with.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Let’s have a drink, then get out of here.”

“You order for me, something strong. I’m going to use the bathroom.”

“It’s an outhouse, just across the back courtyard.” Owen had had more than enough time to establish the layout of this pub.

“Of course it is.” Curt put on his coat and walked off. Owen stared at his retreating back and briefly imagined it with considerably fewer layers. He flagged down the one server currently working.

“Two of your strongest beers and I’d like to close my tab afterward,” he said in Russian. The server nodded, looking rather silly in her apron embroidered with a red chicken, Owen noted. She then walked off, soon to return with two bottles and the bill. Owen glanced at it. Apparently, in his boredom, he had drunk more than he thought. No matter, the higher-ups would compensate him. He hadn’t used the job-related expenses in a while anyway. Five minutes passed before he heard the sounds of a fight coming from the back courtyard.

What had Curt done?

“It’s just a fight, nothing to concern yourself with sir,” the bartender told him. Owen hadn’t realized that he had stood up.

“You don’t care?”

“It’s not happening in my bar,” the bartender shrugged indifferently.

Not good.

Owen picked up the beers and put them in two inner pockets of his greatcoat, then hurried to see what the commotion was. Owen first recognized one of the men who had loaded the weapons into his truck, then Strongarm himself. Next, he saw Curt expertly deliver a right hook to someone’s jaw while another man attempted to get Curt from behind.

He had always struggled to control his constant simmering anger, but this time, Owen let it boil over. Shedding his jacket, he joined the fray.

Kick to the shins.

Bend and punch the solar plexus.

A well-timed head-but let him stand back to back with Curt.

“To you long enough,” Curt panted. He was smiling. The bloody bastard was smiling.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

“Shame. Duck.” Owen ducked and Curt threw a punch where his head was previously, connecting with someone’s nose. They fell into a familiar rhythm, Curt and him. The thrill of the fight, working in concert knowing they had each other’s back.

“Curt, red hat has a knife!”

“I see, roundhouse kick and spin?”

“Worth a try.” They linked arms back to back and Curt used his superior body mass to swing Owen around as he kicked out and into the knife wielder's jaw with a satisfying crunch. The knife clattered to the cobblestones.

“Haven't done that one in a while.”

“Berlin?”

“Probably.” There was no more time for banter as they attempted to hold their own against the four remaining assailants.

Kick. Punch. Elbow. Duck.

Time passed in a blur and soon, Owen realized he and Curt were the only ones left standing, patrons of the bar spilling out to watch the action. He carefully took in the twitching bodies, no way of knowing if they were dead or not. He didn’t want to stay to find out.

“Owen, he has a gun!” Curt pointed to a fallen Strongarm, dragging himself up with obvious effort to point the weapon at him. There was no time to think as Curt pushed him to the ground, landing on top of him as the gun was fired. Curt looked into his eyes with surprise, so close their noses were mashed together.

“Get off me, you lovely idiot,” Owen hissed. Curt rolled off of him with a wince and Owen sat up, pulling his gun out of its holster to shoot Strongarm, who dropped back to the ground with a cry that soon subsided into bloody burbling.

“You had a gun this whole time and you didn’t use it?”

“Close quarters. Are you okay?”

“I’m- fine.” Owen noticed how Curt hesitated over that last word.

“Okay, then let’s get out of here before the patrons decide they want to interrogate us.”

“Lead the way, partner.” They both got up. Owen retrieved his greatcoat and waited for Curt to join him. They had made a noisy mess of things tonight, and there would be bureaucratic hell to pay later, so what was one more disturbance? Owen grabbed Curt’s hand and together they walked confidently out of the pub’s courtyard.


	3. The Clean-up

Curt didn’t know how much longer he could control the pain. Each step was agonizing to his damaged shoulder. Why did Owen have to choose a room on the top floor? 

“We’re here,” said Owen, gesturing grandly to the dingy hotel room. Curt grunted and leaving his ruined coat and boots in a heap, sat down heavily on the room’s single bed.

“You’ve been shot,” Owen stated matter of factually. Curt knew that was Owen’s way of processing a fact he should have picked up on ages ago.

“It’s only a scratch.”

“Let me see.” Owen divested himself of his outer garments, idly noting the two beers and setting them on the dresser. 

“I told you, no big deal.”

“Curt. It’s just us, we’ve dealt with the attackers. There’s absolutely no reason for you not to let me help you. Look- your shirt is soaked with blood,” Owen said, exasperated. Curt glanced at his arm. He hadn’t realized it was that bad. 

“Fine,” Curt agreed reluctantly. Even with Owen, he hated to show any weakness. 

“Take off your shirt, I need to see the wound,” commanded Owen, rummaging through his packs and emerging triumphant with a needle, thread, bandages, and tweezers. 

“Stitches?” 

“I won’t know until I see it. Trust me, I remember some first aid from the course the agency forced me to take a year ago.”

“How reassuring,” Curt mumbled. He did trust Owen, he hoped Owen knew that, but they both dealt with things they didn’t want to think about by distraction and banter. No use getting all sentimental now.  
The bed creaked as Owen sat down beside him and began to prod at the wound.

“Ow.”

“Well love, I have good news and bad news and matter of fact news.”

“Just tell me, Owen.”

“Bad news: You’ve been shot. Good news: The bullet skimmed the top of your shoulder so we’re only dealing with a deep surface wound, no torn muscles or bone damage. Matter of fact news: It’s not going to heal without stitches to hold it closed.” Curt sighed even as he admired Owen’s concise report. 

“Alright, let’s get this over with.” 

“So- the wound needs to be cleaned I think,” Owen brushed his lanky hair away from his face. 

“Is that a washbasin on the far wall?”

“That’ll do. It’s almost like you’ve done this before,” Owen teased halfheartedly. 

“Not these exact circumstances, but I have been shot before.” Way to be a mood killer, Curt thought. A part of him thought it’d get easier with each successive wound, but no, it hurt like hell each time. Curt watched Owen fondly as he tentatively attempted to wipe away some of the blood. 

“I’m already in pain Owen, just get it over with.”

“You asked for it.” Curt sat there and let Owen tend to him, wincing through the pain. He dared to look at the wound as soon as Owen leaned back, trailing his hand over Curt’s arm as if he didn’t want to break contact. All that pain for a wide gash no more than a finger’s length across his shoulder? 

“Bloody hell,” said Curt.

“That’s my line,” Owen responded absently as he pulled out a cigarette lighter and waved a needle through the flame. 

“Just get this stitching business over with.”

“I’m working on it, Curt.” Distraction, that was what he needed. 

“As you said, it’s just us. Explain how you became involved in my mission and why Strongarm and his men decided to jump me for the failure of their weapon delivery.” Owen looked mildly sheepish, then his face changed to one of concentration as he made the first stitch.

“Shit that hurts.”

“Sorry.”

“Just keep talking.”

“You were part of a larger mission to stop the Soviets from transporting weapons across the border to Europe where they would then be sent to various strategic places in their effort against America. Each weapons dealer works alone, with little contact from those in charge of this whole racket. The plan currently is to place agents posing as turncoats, you are one of them, by the way, in places where they gain enough trust to suggest a driver. The driver takes the weapons away to a secure location, the dealers are paid out and put under watch, and reports are falsified to suggest the weapons got to where they were supposed to go.”  
Owen was halfway through the stitches by the time he finished his spiel, Curt concentrating on his words instead of the pain now localized in the pin-pricked puncture holes in his skin. 

“And how did you get to be my driver?”

“The weapons were being smuggled to Europe, so my agency became involved. I volunteered to be a driver and through some searching and string-pulling, got assigned to you,” Owen said. 

For the first time since they had entered the room, Curt made eye contact with Owen. Words weren’t needed. Curt knew that Owen had done all this just to see him again, he saw it in Owen’s eyes, vulnerable and open for a brief moment. For his part, Curt hoped Owen saw the way he appreciated the thought, the way he let go of all the doubts and uncertainties their six month’s separation had sown in his mind. 

“Owen, you’re pulling the string too hard,” Curt finally said. Owen looked down to see that he was pulling the needle much too far up.

“Oops.” Owen turned his attention back to the wound. 

“So, if the weapons dealers weren’t supposed to know their deliveries were not delivered, how come Strongarm and his men attacked me?”

“I don’t know. All I did was drop off the weapons to our agents, then circle back to this town to meet you. Maybe he overheard us talking at the exchange.”

“Or there could be a mole,” Curt offered. 

“We’ll mention that in our report of the- incident. At any rate, that’s not our problem now.” Owen finished his stitches, tied a knot and snipped the ends. “That’s done.”

Curt carefully flexed his shoulder. He wouldn’t be punching at his normal strength any time soon. 

“You’ll need to bandage it to keep everything in place.”

“I’ve got them right here.” Owen held up the roll of bandages. Smudges of red-stained them where his fingers, bloody from stitching the wound, touched. Curt lifted his arm and let Owen wrap the bandages.

“Do you think Strongarm’s men will come after you again?” Owen asked.

“No, they’re hired thugs. With Strongarm’s money out of the picture, they’ll scatter,” said Curt thoughtfully.

“So both of our missions are done here, there’s no reason to stay,” Owen began.

“Do you have someplace you need to be in a hurry?” Curt asked casually. It hurt that Owen seemed to want to leave now that Curt was all patched up. 

“No. Do you?” Owen retorted. Curt smiled. 

“We have the room for the night,” he said, getting up from the bead with a groan to get the two bottles of beer.

“That we do,” Owen laughed and popped open the cap of his beer. 

The two men settled together side by side on the bed. Owen crawled around Curt to lean against his uninjured side and they sat in companionable silence.

“Take off your shirt,” Curt said suddenly.  


“Why?”  


“I have to check you out for any injuries you might have ignored or hidden from me to get me to let you clean up my gunshot wound.” Owen began to laugh, even as he removed his shirt. 

“Oh Curt, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too Owen.” 

They were spies for different agencies, hell, different countries. Their jobs would always take them to the far reaches of the world, most often apart from each other. Curt knew he had to control his feelings for Owen, not just for the sake of his job, but because he knew the world would never really understand what he and Owen shared. They would part ways soon, of that he had little doubt. But for tonight, and maybe for a few days, if he was lucky, he could afford to accept that everything wasn’t under his control anymore. After all, Owen was more than capable of putting out his share of the fires the two of them caused.

END


End file.
